Wolves, and Their Personal Grudge Against Me (eff you, maugrim)

Ever since I can remember, my relationship with wolves has been a tedious one. Unbalanced, to say the least. To be perfectly honest, I sometimes feel a little attacked. ‘Why?’, you ask. I suppose I’d have to say that’s because they have frequently attacked me.

Don’t worry, I haven’t actually been mauled by wild beasts and I don’t have a shredded, scarred face (still as gorgeous as ever) – but once you hear the persecution I have had to endure during my oh so short life-time, I’m sure you will agree that we’re talking about some true childhood trauma.

You see, it all started when I was maybe six or seven, and my dad would read “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” to my brother and me. ‘Broaden their minds’, he probably thought, ‘open their eyes to entirely different, new worlds, boost their creativity.’ Innocent enough, it would seem.

the dreams and images our supportive young father probably meant to show us (but oh, the painful reality)

But do any of you remember that one, terrifying scene? The one that changed my life FOREVER?

That’s right. Maugrim the wolf.

I’m not even joking when I say that this picture still haunts me.

As Maugrim was described, from cowardly, simpering Edmund’s point of view (who is, by the by, also the reason I have a strong aversion to all names beginning in “Ed” – maybe I should look into these Narnia issues), I remember how he came to life in my mind, not knowing that this image would never, ever leave.

It started out harmlessly enough. My midnight trips to the bathroom now became terrifying leaps across the hallway, attempting not to be eaten by the wolf that – I was convinced – was guarding the doors. Probably a healthy enough fear of the unknown, or the dark, or whatever.

However, then the nightmares came.

Family members being devoured, being pursued by wolves at the supermarket, being chased by wolves while my legs hopelessly malfunctioned.

And it gets better.

We used to babysit this adorable, fluffy little dog named Spike. We all loved Spike. Spike loved us. (R.I.P. Spike. <3)

this isn’t him, but he looked pretty similar.

Well, imagine my shock and horror when Spike showed up in my dreams with rabies, started eating his own thighs, and then proceeded to bite my mother, so she had rabies too and started attacking all of us.

I mean what. the. actual. fudge.

Or how about the time this cartoon wolf turned up on our balcony: He had a bright red nose – a bit a la Rudolph – and he was trying to eat us, and my mom managed to whack his nose off his face with a spatula, and he just took a new nose out of his pocket and said “hahahaaa new nose!” and fixed it on his face and we were left helpless, about to be murdered.

Now, don’t say I haven’t tried to free myself from this situation. For years, I insisted that wolves were my favorite animals, in a desperate attempt to pacify whichever evil wolf spirits were determined to ruin my sleep night after night.

It didn’t work (just to be clear, tigers are my favorite animal, and since I’ve only been attacked by a tiger once, and that one time I had force-field powers to protect me, I’m going to stay loyal to this claim).

Even now, my frantic sprints up the stairs and to my bed after turning off lights are caused by a sense of snarling wolves close behind me. Just last night, I watched a horror movie, and instead of afterward being afraid of whatever was in the movie, I became convinced that if I left the couch, wolves would attack me.

I have a serious problem.

Oh, and to all you who don’t understand why I’m a cat person and not a dog person: This is why I’m a cat person. This is why.